Page 26 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Like yours doesn’t get stroked on a daily basis.”

“Ever since day one, sweet dear, I have wanted to fuck you, seeing how well your little pussy can take what I have to offer.”

The offer is a lot to handle, quite like the man himself.

“You walked in wearing those black pants that were too short for you, stopping at the calves.”

“They’re called capris.”

“You sat down, looked me dead in the eye across the table with your feline eyes, and let me know you were going to cause a stir.”

“And have I?” I ask, staring deep into his soul.

Mr. Moretti flashes a smirk. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.” He shoves his boxer shorts down to his knees, his cock laying thick against his stomach, causing my pulse to hum.

I feel my mouth gape wide open, my jaw dropping a hundred stories, landing on the fucking streets of Manhattan. I never saw his cock the first time, only felt it inside. Angling my head to the side, examining it, I wonder how my cervix survived.

“You, on the other hand, Miss Bennett,” continues Mr. Moretti, running a finger over his lip, “are already stirred.”

“I’m perfectly fine, which is why you hired me, remember?” I say, leaning back on my elbows. “I know how to handle my shit.”

“Handling me might take some practice.”

“You speak way too highly of yourself.”

“What happened to formalities, Miss Bennett? A level of respect is still required for your boss, even though you may be fucking him.”

“Well, we’re not fucking,” I grit, my patience running thin. “Not yet.”

“We can soon change that,” he says, guiding his cock between my legs, nudging his tip against my clit. “I want you to look at the man who is fucking you, Miss Bennett. Keep your eyes on me.”

I buckle my hips as he fills me, pleasure already starting to burst at the seams.

I force my eyes open even though pleasure weighs heavy on my eyelids, pressing them down. I force them open, my vision turning green as I find him staring at me.

I glance at his chest, seeing muscles work underneath his shirt. “Take your shirt off.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to be naked. Remove my blouse and your shirt.”

“I do not accept demands from my assistant, or even requests,” says Mr. Moretti, his hips crashing with mine as he slides his cock in all the way. “You listen to me, Miss Bennett, not the other way around.”

I arch my back, fitting more of him, already on the verge of climax.

This is not how I saw today going. After the chat with Aunt Viv at the gallery, I was initially on the fence about Salvatore’s arrangement, about bending over his desk again when there’s clearly more to this man than attraction and money.

For breaking that man’s nose, Mr. Moretti has proven to be reckless, unable to stay in control for very long.

He may give off the illusion in public that he is in control, entering rooms with purpose, speaking with intention, like every word that comes out of his mouth has been thought over carefully, but seeing blood is not a shock for him. He didn’t blink once yesterday, more concerned about the mess the man was making on his floor than the casualty.

Perhaps he spills blood on a regular basis…

“No matter how horrific, how upsetting something may be, if you are exposed to the trauma enough, you eventually stop reacting,” is what my mother told me once after a night shift at the hospital. “Think about the worst thing you’ve ever seen, and I promise you the reality is ten times worse in the ER,” she said. “And us nurses deal with patient trauma like we’re making a sandwich.”

“I’m getting hot,” I gasp, lifting the hem of my blouse over my torso. “I feel like I’m in a steam room.”

“I feel fine,” says Mr. Moretti, flashing me a quick glance. He stabilizes himself on the desk, using the hand as momentum to drive forward, fucking me deeper.